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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26477845">hear the sound of a gentle word</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/acheybones/pseuds/acheybones'>acheybones</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i didn't know i was lonely ('til i saw your face) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ableism, Adult Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Author Bill Denbrough, Ben Hanscom &amp; Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Bill Denbrough &amp; Eddie Kaspbrak Are Best Friends, Depression, Dermatillomania, Fluff and Angst, Gay Disaster Eddie Kaspbrak, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insecure Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Meet-Cute, Munchausen by proxy, Mutism, Neurodivergent Richie Tozier, Nightmares, Nonverbal Communication, Panic Attacks, Parent Death, Pining, Record Store Day, Record store au, References to Sexual Dysfunction, Richie Tozier is Bad at Feelings, Slow Build, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Speech Disorders, Therapy, Vomiting, author eddie kaspbrak, author is neurodivergent, eddie kaspbrak has PTSD, no beta we die like men, selective mutism, so much pining did i say that</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:02:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,739</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26477845</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/acheybones/pseuds/acheybones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie Kaspbrak isn't a very religious man, but he's pretty sure that Richie Tozier is an angel sent just for him. </p><p>+</p><p>or, Eddie has mutism. Richie owns the record store below his apartment. They make it work.<br/>(title from "good vibrations" by the beach boys)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak &amp; Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i didn't know i was lonely ('til i saw your face) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946503</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>159</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie isn’t a very religious man, but he’s pretty sure that Richie is an angel sent just for him.</p><p> </p><p>It starts innocently enough, on an uncharacteristically warm Sunday in the fall. Of course, warm in Maine is high sixties, but Eddie isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie treks downstairs from his apartment, tosses his garbage into the can by the street, and is intent on slipping back upstairs unnoticed by the rest of the world.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t quite get that far, however, because he’s distracted by the absolutely grating racket of the metal gate in front of the store being cranked up. He had always known that the music store was beneath his apartment. He could often hear the soft music through the floorboards, and once in awhile, he may have swayed around his tiny kitchen to an Elton John or Paul Simon record. What he did not know, however, was how dreamy the man he presumed to be the owner was. That was news.</p><p> </p><p>The man was wearing a red flannel over a black t-shirt with a white logo that Eddie recognized as belonging to Weezer. When he had cranked the gate up, and reached upwards to lock it on the opposite side of the window, Eddie could see the tall man's shirt ride up against a lithe, smooth stomach, and he felt his face burning.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, because the universe is a strange and cruel mistress, the man's eyes met Eddie's before he had a chance to bolt back upstairs. He gave a kind smile and a small wave, the corners of his eyes crinkling behind glasses that were so thick, Eddie didn't know how he could see through them.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie was suddenly all too aware of the fact that he had came downstairs in sweatpants and a t-shirt he had grabbed from the top of the laundry basket. Something as simple as returning the tall man's smile felt impossible, and Eddie could feel the corners of his mouth turning in an attempt to return the grin. Eddie couldn't see himself, but he was pretty sure it just made him look like he was about to throw up.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>A week later, Eddie gathered all the courage he could, put on actual pants, and made his way downstairs. He was going to march right into Trashmouth Records, find the handsome shop owner, and introduce himself.</p><p> </p><p>Except he knew that he wouldn't. Eddie hadn't said more than ten words in years. He communicated with his therapist through sign language, writing particularly long or traumatic parts down in a notebook to save his hands the trouble. The few friends he did have, through text messages. He cringed at the thought of how rough his voice was likely to be with disuse, and probably not in the sexy way.</p><p> </p><p>What was he even doing down here? This had been a stupid idea from the beginning. He should get out of this alleyway and march his happy ass back upstairs.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't make it that far before the side door of the record store was opening into the alleyway, and he was met with a tall, curly head of brown hair and rimmed glasses. Eddie really thinks the universe is out to get him.</p><p> </p><p>Record store boy gives that same little smile to Eddie, and Eddie wants to melt into his shoes.</p><p> </p><p>"Sorry, figured I'd be the only one out here." He's forgone the flannel today, and instead favoring a peach-colored Hawaiian button-up over a white tee. He pulls a carton of cigarettes from the back pocket of his jeans, tapping one out before looking back up at Eddie and nodding in the direction of the stairwell. "You live upstairs, right?"</p><p> </p><p>Eddie's eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn't say anything. No surprise there, but Eddie's pretty sure that even if he could talk, the man would take all his words away.</p><p> </p><p>The man looks down, scuffing the toes of his Converse against one another.  "Sorry, that was probably weird of me. I saw you come down the other week. I, uh, waved but you might not have seen me."</p><p> </p><p>He's got big brown eyes and freckles dusting horizontally across the center of his face. Eddie wants to die.</p><p> </p><p>"Name's Richie." The man transfers his cigarette to the opposite hand and holds his right hand out  to Eddie. Eddie's shaken a hand before, he knows how to do this. Until right now, when he feels like he's just rubbing two brain cells together to try and make fire.</p><p> </p><p>When Eddie just stares at the hand stretched out to him for entirely too long, Richie awkwardly places it back by his side and takes another drag from his cigarette.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, um, guess I'll be seeing you around, neighbor." Richie gives a smile to Eddie, and then taps out his cigarette in the standing ash tray by the door before slipping back into the shop. Eddie settles for just trying not to slam his head into the brick exterior.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Eddie's life is a pretty simple one. He wakes up, he writes, he fields emails to his publisher, and goes to bed. Recently, he's added "avoid Richie" to the list. It's not that Eddie isn't interested in Richie. It's quite the opposite, actually. Eddie just doesn't want to make an idiot out of himself- again- so he decides to resign himself to his apartment until he can figure out a way to talk to Richie.</p><p> </p><p>He stays in the apartment for awhile.</p><p> </p><p>Towards the end of September, a line forms outside of his building early in the morning. A quick Google search tells him today is something called Record Store Day, and it looks like Richie's shop is extra busy for it.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie could probably slip down there, steal a few glances of Richie, and buy a copy of the new Dirty Projectors EP before anyone even noticed he was there.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't do this. Instead, he slips down the fire escape stairs so he can avoid the alleyway, and walks down the block to the tiny coffee shop at the end of the street. He grabs an oat milk latte for himself, and orders an Americano for Richie. He doesn't know the man's last name, let alone his coffee order, so he snags a handful of creamer and sugar packets on his way out. He carefully places the drink on top of the ashtray in the alleyway, scrawling quickly on the side of the cup before he bolts back upstairs, hoping he hasn't missed Richie's smoke break.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Thought you could use this. Sorry, I wasn't sure how you took it. - Your Neighbor</em>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Of all his friends- and there aren't very many to choose from, Eddie thinks he likes Bill the best.</p><p> </p><p>Bill stutters, and as a consequence, he's one of the few people who doesn't get annoyed with Eddie's various forms of nonverbal communication.</p><p> </p><p>When they video chat with each other, they go back and forth between signing and typing out in their text boxes. Sometimes when Bill is having particularly bad writer's block and Eddie is teetering on the cusp of a panic attack, he takes comfort in the sound of the clacking of nimble fingers on Bill’s keyboard.</p><p> </p><p><em>How are things with the music man? </em>Bill signs, sweeping one hand over the opposite wrist.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie thinks that Bill moving across the country has made him forget how much of a disaster his best friend is. He raises an eyebrow that he hopes conveys how ridiculous Bill sounds for even asking.</p><p> </p><p>Bill rolls his eyes and Eddie can hear him typing before a text message pops up on his computer.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>You know the worst that could happen is he’s just not into you, right?</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Eddie shakes his head and gives Bill a knowing look. A gay, non-verbal man hitting on anyone in such a small town could definitely be asking for trouble. Eddie is almost positive now that Bill has forgotten.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie brings his hands together, signing “fight”, and Bill’s shoulders slump in a sad, knowing gesture. More typing on Bill’s end.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>So, maybe it’s not the worst that could happen. But, you live right above his record store. He’d probably be too scared that you would smash his windows in or something.</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Eddie lets out a laugh that sounds more like a scoff than anything else, and then remembers why he doesn’t let himself do it that often.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for all the kind words on chapter one! comments are my lifeblood. &lt;3<br/>i got this update out pretty quickly because i already had it written, but wanted to gauge interest with the first chapter. i hope you like this chapter as well!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie has struck a delicate enough balance between his therapy visits and various medications that he isn't plagued with nightmares nearly as often as he used to be. But, whenever he gets them, boy, does he get them.</p><p> </p><p>Tonight, he's swallowed by the earth when the roof of his childhood home collapses and his bed falls through the floorboards under the weight. The dirt around him is cold, but soft, and when Eddie wakes up an adult again he's frantically scratching through his hair to rid himself of the bugs that aren't there.</p><p> </p><p>He scratches at his scalp until he pulls his hand back, sees he's made himself bleed. When he stumbles into the bathroom, he finds the spot he scratched quickly enough. He's briefly convinced himself that the major head trauma he has suffered was real when he sees blood dripping from his ear, but then just realizes the blood's coming from the skin behind it.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie can't help but think about his mother. He isn't positive that she isn't haunting him for purposefully missing her funeral, no matter how much his therapist says that isn't that case. When he dreams about his youth, he thinks his mother is trying to gaslight him from behind the grave.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh, Eddie-Bear, see what happens when you don't listen to your mother? See what happens when you don't wear a coat in the rain? See what happens when you don't take your pills? See what happens when you like boys?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It works. Eddie usually wakes up with a choked scream right when his mother pulls him from the ground, rotting flesh and sagging skin clinging to visible bones.</p><p> </p><p>The washcloth that Eddie holds up behind is ear is cold and wet in the most jarring 2 A.M. way, and Eddie hisses and flinches away from it. Eddie's pretty sure Munchausen Syndrome is spelled S-O-N-I-A.</p><p>
  
</p><p>When he finally makes it back to bed, bleeding stopped and broken skin disinfected, he curls in on himself. Eddie's relatively small, just barely 5'8, but he can never make himself small enough to feel safe.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks about Richie, easily at least 6'2, and how nice it would feel to be to be wrapped up in long arms and having delicate fingers stroke the indentations of his spine. Then, he hates himself, because not even the idea of the gorgeous man downstairs is enough to stir any interest in his pants. His therapist says it's a common side-effect of the medication he's on, and that it'll go away, but Eddie thinks that the universe might just be out to get him for liking boys. Mental health is a fickle thing.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Like most anxiety patients, Eddie isn't comfortable with most things. One thing he has gotten comfortable with is in the unavoidable forest of pine that he has established for Richie. It feels like a school-aged crush all over again, except now Eddie's brain is too broken to introduce himself. Broken brain, broken dick, Eddie sees no reason to add "broken heart" to that list.</p><p> </p><p>Of the many things that he is, Eddie isn't a creep. He keeps his pining to a respectable distance. When he goes downstairs to check his mail, sometimes he'll catch Richie sweeping the sidewalk in front of the shop and Richie will smile at him. Eddie has finally learned to make the corners of his mouth cooperate, and the first time Eddie smiles back at him, he thinks that he might have seen Richie's cheeks flush.</p><p> </p><p>A life of innocent smiles and blushing cheeks. That could be good enough for Eddie. At least, he wishes it was.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The thing that most people get wrong about Eddie’s mutism, is the idea that he’s unable to communicate. That he either can’t hear or process what they’re saying. He thinks he rather let people think that than to even begin to explain trauma responses or ableism or “my broken brain is none of your business, dickwad.”</p><p> </p><p>Tuesday’s are for therapy, and if you ask Eddie, it’s the worst day of the week. He likes his therapist, as much as you can like someone who makes you unlock all the deepest parts of your brain and lay them out on a glass table top. No matter how much you might like someone, that’s not a fun Tuesday afternoon for anyone.</p><p> </p><p><em>How’s your week been, Eddie?</em> Eddie knows he’s lucky to have a therapist who is able to communicate non-verbally with him, but it never seems to make the hour go any smoother.</p><p> </p><p><em>Good days and bad days. </em>Eddie’s only good days are the one’s where he gets to share a smile with Richie, but he doesn’t bring that up.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>How are you sleeping?</em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>He isn’t. He doesn’t say that either. He never says anything.</p><p> </p><p>“I-“ Eddie almost jumps at the sound of his own voice. He doesn’t even think in his own voice anymore. His thoughts have almost developed a voice of their own. He thinks it might have been what his voice sounded like before, but he hasn’t heard it in so long.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m n-not doing. Well.” He finishes. It can’t take more than a minute, but it feels like it takes him hours to get the four words out. It burns like bile at the back of his throat, and he’s reminded why he doesn’t do it. He wishes that talking wasn’t this difficult. He remembers when it started, but he can’t remember why.</p><p> </p><p>His therapist gives a slow nod. Eddie can’t remember her first name. He barely remembers his own or what streets he took to get here.</p><p> </p><p>“The hardest part is saying that you need help, Eddie. There’s nothing wrong with that. You should be proud of yourself, in fact.” Her voice is soft and slow and feels non-judgmental but Eddie feels pretty fucking far from proud of himself.</p><p> </p><p>His hands are clutched together so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. He can feel his shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping his hands still.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t use his voice anymore during the appointment.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>He walks home on autopilot, focusing all his effort on not walking into traffic. One hand busies itself with his keys in his pocket, and the other is knotted up in the bottom of his t-shirt. It’s really only par for the course that when he rounds the corner of the alleyway to go back upstairs, Richie is waiting for him.</p><p> </p><p>Richie has kind eyes and a crooked grin and it breaks Eddie’s heart whenever that smile falters.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, I haven’t seen you in a few days. Everything okay?” He doesn’t move any closer to Eddie and Eddie appreciates the space.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie forces himself to nod slowly, and Richie’s eyebrows shoot up.</p><p> </p><p>“Shit, you can hear me? Oh.. Oh god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I, um- thought you were deaf? O-or hard of hearing? Or, oh no, <em>beep beep</em> Richie.” Richie closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath before looking back up at Eddie.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, I talk way too damn much. You, you can hear me, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Eddie pulls his head out of his ass enough to nod slowly.</p><p> </p><p>“I just- I thought, you know. Thought I’d make an ass of myself.” Richie gives a self-depreciating smile and a shrug.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie forces a smile of his own, awkwardly bouncing on the balls of his feet because Richie is blocking the stairwell.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen, uh… I’m sorry. I see you around all the time, obviously, but we never really talked? So, I guess I just assumed? And I know, <em>I know</em> that’s so shitty of me. What do you say we start over? Richie Tozier.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddie clenches his hands into fists, and forces all the strength into his lungs to spit his own name out, “Ed-Eddie.” It doesn’t even sound like his name.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you all for the kind words on this so far, feedback is my lifeblood &lt;3 just a side note that i know my works tend to be on the short side, it's just really hard for me to write long pieces and edit them. i hope you still enjoy!</p><p>side side note that i'm updating the tags as i post so if i miss anything you think needs to be tagged, please don't hesitate to let me know!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie means to make a good first impression with Richie, he does.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to introduce himself, bury his thoughts in Richie's dimples and bask in the warmth of his smile. Richie radiates a comfort that Eddie desperately wants to keep for himself. It frightens him, that Richie has become a sort of beacon of light in his dreary days. He wants to wake up every morning, if only to see chestnut curls bouncing idly to an Electric Light Orchestra record through the window of the shop, then a pale pink flush and a tiny smile when Richie realizes he's been caught. Eddie wants to stand on Richie's sneakers and spin around his apartment like a fourteen year-old learning to dance. He thinks that his bad days would be better if Richie was waiting with open arms for him, because they're already better for the 30 seconds a day that Eddie gets with Richie.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie wants to make a good impression, which is why he's more than slightly mortified when he has to shove Richie to the side to vomit into the alley garbage can.</p><p> </p><p>This is a bad day. God, is this a bad day. Eddie keeps trying to tell himself that this is just a bad day, and that everyone gets them. Even though most people probably don't shove their crush into a brick wall to retch right in front of them. This is a bad day.</p><p> </p><p>He's going to have to move. Maybe he'll move to Seattle, live in Bill's attic like the ghost he has become.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks about how that conversation with Bill would go.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"I threw up in front of Richie."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Was it a sex thing?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>When the shakes stop racking Eddie's body, he wants to cry. When Richie reaches out a gentle hand and cups his elbow, he does.</p><p> </p><p>"Eddie, do I need to call someone?" Richie's voice doesn't sound as disgusted as Eddie thinks that it should, so Eddie's mush brain tells him that it isn't real. He can deal with that. What Eddie can not deal with is Richie's long fingers carefully wrapping around his inner elbow and the concern on his face.</p><p> </p><p>With Richie at his side, the stairway path is finally open, so Eddie takes it, choking out a soft "no" before running up the stairs three at a time. When he gets in his apartment and has the door locked, he lets a despairing sob squeak out of his throat. His shoulders fall, and everything he's been fighting since he woke up from the dream hits him all at once.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie has never thought much about killing himself. Really, he's never thought that anyone would mind that much. Tonight, he thinks he might like to sleep for awhile. Maybe forever. Maybe it would quell the tiredness that he can't seem to shake. The cold he can never get warm from, permanently taking up shop in the pit of his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>He isn't sure how he could really explain this to Richie. Trauma isn't really something you just write a letter to a friend about.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Richie, I had one of the recurring nightmares about my mother and proceeded to have the worst day I've had in years.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Richie, have you ever heard of a trauma response?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Richie, five years ago, my mother died. I haven't been "right" since, and I'm not sure why.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Richie, I think your smile lights up the darkest parts of the alleyway, and I would like to see it forever if you'd let me.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Writing a letter to a friend. He and Richie aren't friends. He and Richie are nothing.</p><p> </p><p>"Eddie.." It's mumbled so softly outside his door that Eddie is almost certain he's making things up.</p><p> </p><p>"Eddie, please come out? I know you're in there. Listen, it's not that bad, you know?"</p><p> </p><p>Eddie doesn't say anything, which isn't new, but right now he wants to kick himself for it. He hears the creak of the door settling under Richie's weight, leading Eddie to believe he's leaning against it.</p><p> </p><p>"Whenever I was in college, I DJ'ed for the campus radio station, right? And I remember, right before my first show, I was so nervous I thought I was gonna have to broadcast from the bathroom. I thought everyone was just tuning in to listen to me fuck up, you know? But I did it. I did the show and everyone loved it. I stayed on until I graduated, and then they had to pry the microphone out of my hands. It felt... right, I guess."</p><p>
  
</p><p>Eddie stays quiet.</p><p> </p><p>"The point is, everyone's nerves are constantly trying to get the best of them. Maybe some of us more than others. I'm not disgusted by you, or anything. If anything, I'm just happy you missed my shoes." Richie laughs a bit at the end. "Sorry, I get told I talk too much sometimes."</p><p> </p><p>Everyone talks too much compared to Eddie, but he thinks he'd like to listen to Richie all the time.</p><p> </p><p>"Um, Eds, listen. I don't really know what's going on. I don't know why you stay in your apartment all day, or why sometimes you stumble home like someone's after you, but I'd like to.”</p><p> </p><p>Eddie can hear the scratch and rustling of paper, then it's silence again except for his own heartbeat in his ears.</p><p> </p><p>"You don't have to deal with this alone, Eddie. You're always welcome in the shop, and I slid my number under the doormat."</p><p> </p><p>Richie is quiet for another minute, like he's holding out hope for a "thank you", or maybe a "get lost." But it doesn't come, and Eddie thinks he can hear the hope die in his voice when Richie says a soft "please, take care if yourself, Eddie."</p><p> </p><p>Eddie can hear the sound of Richie's footsteps going back down the stairs, and he waits a whole ten minutes before he lets himself open the door. His hand shoots out under the mat, like the note is alive and will get away if he doesn't pounce on it like a starving bobcat with a fish.</p><p> </p><p>When he has it, he shuts the door again, hoping he hasn't made enough noise for Richie to hear him downstairs.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks about writing a letter to his landlord.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Remember when you asked if I would be okay living above a record shop? Turns out, I'm possibly in love with the owner and am no longer okay with it after these long two years.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Before he can think much more about that, he gets the overwhelming urge to vomit again and bolts to the bathroom.</p><p> </p><p>After brushing his teeth, twice for good measure, he grabs his laptop to call Bill.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p><em>I can't just write it down</em>, Eddie signs exasperatedly.</p><p> </p><p><em>Of course not. It's not like you write for a living or anything</em>, Bill signs back. Eddie flips him off. Sarcasm might be hard to detect in sign language, but a middle finger is pretty much universally understood.</p><p> </p><p>Bill's eyes drop down to the text box and Eddie can hear his fingers on the keyboard, which is what he tends to turn to if what he wants to say is too much to sign.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Eddie, no one is asking you to peel back your skin and show Richie all of your trauma. If anything, all Richie was asking is that you let him listen to you.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Eddie purses his lips and thinks about how there is nothing for Richie to listen to, and that's part of the problem. Eddie's fingers itch to pull on his hair until all he can think about is the pain, but he hears Bill snaps his fingers on the other side of the call, quick to know when his friend is spiraling deep.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie looks over at the paper Richie gave him, number long since saved in his phone and crumpled on his nightstand.</p><p> </p><p>"T-t-the worst h-he can s-say is n-no." Bill says. Bill talks much more than Eddie does. Eddie is pretty sure that Bill's wife, Audra, still doesn't know sign language. It makes Eddie feel like they're kids again, creating some secret language that is safe between the two of them, even if a million other people in the world are in on the joke.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie has never thought much about killing himself. Really, he's never thought that anyone would mind that much. But, Eddie will wake up tomorrow, if only to prove to himself that he can. And see the chestnut curls again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'm on <a href="http://twitter.com/acheyb0nes">twitter</a> and <a href="http://acheybones.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> if you're into that</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>did someone say Richie backstory? (no one said Richie backstory. i hope you enjoy anyway &lt;3 ) feedback is always appreciated and you can tell me what you want to read at either of the links below!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">When Richie was younger, his mother, Maggie, taught him to play piano. Of course, "taught" was the operative word, because in actuality there was no learned skill to discuss. But, god dammit, did Maggie try. Whenever it became apparent that her song played piano about as well as Les Dawson, she didn't push. She just held her son's hand, and walked him into the music store to see what else he could take a crack at. </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">He didn't find an instrument, but he did find records. Richie's eyes were always hilariously huge because of his thick lenses, but he figures they looked like they were sure to pop out of his skull whenever they landed on the long racks going down the entire length of one wall. Every genre he could think of, and some he didn't know existed. </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">Bins of Prince, and Earth, Wind &amp; Fire. A smaller section dedicated to comedy albums featuring Steve Martin and George Carlin that his mother promptly steered him away from.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">The Tozier's always told Richie that all they ever wanted for him was happiness, and Richie had made that very apparent that his happiness wasn't going to be found in dental school or a law textbook.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">When six year-old Richie stood on the toes of his sneakers and gripped the edge of the counter for dear life to see what the shop owner had spinning in the Victrola, Maggie Tozier swore she had never seen the little boy's eyes light up so much. His mother wasn't there, but Richie is pretty sure she'd say the same thing about when he first saw the man from upstairs.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">For a long time, music was the most consistent thing in his life. Now, it's the seconds he gets everyday when the stranger bounds down his steps to take out his garbage or check the mail. They spark something deep in the pit of his stomach that he can't discern as being love or nausea.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">The problem is that he makes him stupid. Unabashedly, jaw-droppingly stupid, and Richie understands that it's ridiculous considering he doesn't even know his name.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">But, he holds on. He holds on to the seconds he gets everyday with him before the man undoubtedly sneaks back up to his apartment until they do this dance all over again the next morning. Richie doesn't know how to dance, and he doesn't know how to do this either.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">Sometimes, when he's wiping down the counters and getting ready to lock up for the night, he can hear him pacing above the shop. There's only one apartment and his record shop in the building, so he knows it's him, and Richie worries. Like, a lot.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">So much so he calls Ben Hanscom at his hoity-toity architecture firm in New York to air his grievances.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"I'm going out of my mind here." Richie sighed into his cell phone, leaning his elbow on the counter and putting his head in his hand. "I've never met anyone that turned my brain and my pants to goo like this."</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"Gross. Can't believe you telling him that hasn't worked." Richie can hear Ben chopping something in the background, likely preparing dinner for himself and Bev. Because Ben's a married man who makes dinner and doesn't eat day-old takeout on his couch alone. Whatever.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"Okay, so here's the thing-" Richie begins, "I haven't... haven't actually talked to him."</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"Trashmouth Tozier stunned into silence? I don't believe it."</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"Would you believe it if I stuck a foot up your ass?" Richie locks the front door of the shop and goes to grab his jacket from the back.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"There's the good ol' Rich I know and love."</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"See, here's the thing," Richie puts his phone on speaker so he can get into his jacket, "I've talked to him. But, he doesn't talk to me? Like, I don't know if he understands what I'm saying."</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"Have you considered that maybe he's just not interested?" Ben asks, and he sounds genuine when he does.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"Considered it. Briefly. Shoved that right out of my noggin'." Richie isn't nearly as much of a confident hard-ass as he portrays himself to be, but he and Ben have been friends long enough that Ben can always detect the self-deprecation in his tone.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"I'm serious, Richie. Don't get a restraining order and lose the music shop."</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"I'm not gonna lose the shop, Ben, he comes down everyday. He waits for me to notice him. That's gotta mean something right?" Richie knows he sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than Ben- considering the fact that he hasn't seen him the last few mornings- but he can't bring it in himself to care. </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">***</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">He doesn't mean to get caught waiting for the man. He isn't even purposefully trying to wait for him, he's just fumbling with his keys to lock up for the night when he turns the corner into the alleyway. Richie's confused, because the stranger doesn't come out this late. Sure, it's 7pm on a Tuesday, but for the man, that's late. Richie isn't positive he's ever even seen him out of the apartment except for the morning not-rendezvouses. </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">Richie's doing the thing where he worries about him even though he knows he has no right to, again. </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em> <span class="s3">Make conversation, Rich. That's what people do.</span> </em>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"Hey, I haven't seen you in a few days. Everything okay?"</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em> <span class="s2">No! Bad! Bad Richie! Don't make it sound like you've been looking for him, he'll never come downstairs again!</span> </em>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">Richie doesn't even expect a response from him. He never does, really. He's working on not taking it personally. Then, the man does the unthinkable, and nods slowly.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2"><span class="s2">“Shit, you can hear me? Oh.. Oh god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I, um- thought you were deaf? O-or hard of hearing? Or, oh no, </span> <span class="s3">beep beep</span> <span class="s2"> Richie.” Richie closes his eyes and tries very hard not to think about how much he wants the pavement to crack open and swallow him whole. He looks back up at the stranger and it does nothing to slow his heartbeat. “Sorry, I talk way too damn much. You, you can hear me, right?” </span></p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">Another slow nod. Richie has to try very hard to not feel like a jackass. It doesn't work. God, Richie is a creep, isn't he?</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">“I just- I thought, you know. Thought I’d make an ass of myself." He says finally.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">The man smiles, and dammit, Richie wants to see more of it.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2"><span class="s2">“Listen, uh… I’m sorry. I see you around all the time, obviously, but we never really talked? So, I guess I just assumed? And I know, </span> <span class="s3">I know</span> <span class="s2"> that’s so shitty of me. What do you say we start over? Richie Tozier.”</span></p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">The man tenses up, and spits it out like the name burns his mouth, "Ed-Eddie."</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">Eddie. Richie likes the way it rolls around in his brain, and he likes even better that the forest of pine he has cultivated over the last two years.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">His elation is short-lived, because Eddie shoves him out of the way and vomits into the trash can.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2"><span class="s2">Eddie's shaking, and Richie wants to do something. Rub a hand down his spine, t</span> <span class="s2">ell him that everything's going to be fine, fucking bring him ginger ale with a crazy straw. Literally anything to stop the shaking. That's when Eddie starts to cry.</span></p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">Eddie's short. Richie's worried he's going to faceplant right in his own sick, head-first into the garbage, with how bad his body is shaking. He gently wraps his arm around Eddie's albow to steady him, and hope he doesn't get punched in the face.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"Eddie, do I need to call someone?" Richie asks, bracing himself for the "wife", "girlfriend", or "fiancé" that might answer his question.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">He doesn't get that. Eddie just gives him a soft "no" and makes a break for the stairs.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">***</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s3"><em>Don't do this. Don't do this. Don't do this</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"Eddie... Eddie, please come out? I know you're in there. Listen, it's not that bad, you know?" </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">He's doing this. He knows he shouldn't, but with the look that Eddie had on his face, Richie's worried he'll walk off the roof or something. Then, who will be the object of his unrequited love and affection?</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">Eddie is quiet, Richie doesn't even know if he's listening on the other side of the door.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"Whenever I was in college, I DJ'ed for the campus radio station, right? And I remember, right before my first show, I was so nervous I thought I was gonna have to broadcast from the bathroom. I thought everyone was just tuning in to listen to me fuck up, you know? But I did it. I did the show and everyone loved it. I stayed on until I graduated, and then they had to pry the microphone out of my hands. It felt... right, I guess."</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">Richie doesn't know if he's giving any comfort to Eddie, but God, he wants to.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"The point is, everyone's nerves are constantly trying to get the best of them. Maybe some of us more than others. I'm not disgusted by you, or anything. If anything, I'm just happy you missed my shoes." Richie's going to punch himself in the face, "Sorry, I get told I talk too much sometimes... I don't really know what's going on. I don't know why you stay in your apartment all day, or why sometimes you stumble home like someone's after you, but I'd like to.” </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">Richie doesn't know what comes over him, but his arm bypasses his brain entirely and pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket. His other hand scribbles his number on it and Richie can just hope that Eddie doesn't realize it's a pizza receipt. </span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s2">"You don't have to deal with this alone, Eddie. You're always welcome in the shop, and I slid my number under the doormat. Please, take care if yourself, Eddie."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you'll notice that this is the last chapter, but you'll also notice that this is part one of a new series i've made!!</p><p>i plan on elaborating on this Reddie musicverse, but i wanted the first part of it to end with their meeting.</p><p>i hope you enjoy this and the things to come. ❤️</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Richie..." Ben groaned into the phone, "I specifically said not to be weird about this."</p><p> </p><p>Richie stirred his coffee, throwing the spoon into the sink and shutting the silverware drawer with his hip.</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t make it weird, Ben. I just gave him my number.” Richie argued, but the doubt in his voice was apparent.</p><p> </p><p>“You went to the man’s doorstep and left your number under the welcome mat.” Ben deadpanned.</p><p> </p><p>Okay, so maybe Richie had made it weird, but he hadn’t meant to! He was genuinely worried about Eddie.</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t see him, Ben. He looked..” <em>Afraid. Alone. Like someone showing any genuine concern for his well being was foreign.</em> “He looked like he needed someone.” Richie finally finishes.</p><p> </p><p>“That might have been true, Rich. But-“ Ben stops himself and is quiet for a few minutes. Deep sigh. “You know.”</p><p> </p><p>Richie’s hand clenches around his coffee mug.</p><p> </p><p>“What do I know, Ben?”</p><p> </p><p>Okay! So maybe Richie had poor social skills. Maybe he had spent most of his formative years learning emotions and what they looked like on other people. He knew what fear looked like, and whenever he looked at Eddie, it was all he saw.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Sometimes, you can be a little much, Richie. You have to be patient with others who don’t think the way that you do.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Never mind. I just don’t want to see you hurt. Maybe Eddie is alone because he likes to be alone, you know?”</p><p> </p><p>“Ben, he hardly ever comes out of his apartment, and whenever he does he looks like he’s contemplating walking into traffic.”</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t save everyone, Richie.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>When he’s getting ready to open up shop, Richie thinks about Eddie. That’s not a new development, not by a long shot.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks about what Ben said, and if he is really pushing too hard on Eddie. All he wants to do is help. But, maybe his help isn’t necessary. Not necessary, nor wanted. Hell, maybe he’s making things worse for Eddie, and that’s the last thing that he wants.</p><p> </p><p>Then he gets a text message.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Unknown: Sorry about last night.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Richie can’t dial the number fast enough.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Unknown: I can’t talk. Believe me, you have no idea how badly.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What are you talking about?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Unknown: Nothing, usually.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s Eddie. It has to be. Who else would send him an ominous text message apologizing for last night? Last time Richie checked, no one else had almost thrown up on his shoes and then ran off in a panic.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I know it’s you, Eddie.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Unknown: There’s a lot that you don’t know, Richie. I’m more complicated than you need.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What if complicated is just what I want?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Eddie never responds. Richie doesn’t go up to his apartment after he closes up shop.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Two weeks pass, and Richie doesn’t hear anymore from Eddie. It’s a Sunday, and he closes up the shop early, deciding to dedicate his night to getting hammered on his couch and watching Good Eats reruns.</p><p> </p><p>He’s on his second Rum and Coke when he fucks up. He should have deleted the text message thread weeks ago.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It’s not fair, you know. All I want to do is help.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Unknown: You can’t save everyone, Richie.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You know how fucking tired I am of hearing that?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Richie wants to give up, he really does. Eddie obviously doesn't need him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Please just tell me to scram. I can’t handle the open ending.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He wants Eddie to tell him to leave him alone. Well, he doesn’t. But he thinks it’d be better to help him move on. Eddie’s not one for straight answers, and it drives Richie insane. Richie needs to delete the text messages.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Unknown: You need to take care of yourself, Richie.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What if I want to take care of you?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Two years pining for the brunette had not helped Richie with subtleties.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Unknown: Come upstairs after you close. Don’t even think of locking up early.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Richie is pretty sure his heart is going to give out before he makes it up the stairs. He thinks the corners of his vision would be going black if he wasn’t absolutely seeing everything through rose-colored glasses at the moment.</p><p> </p><p>He knocks on Eddie’s door twice, but the sound hits his ear wrong, so he delivers a late third one as well.</p><p> </p><p>He takes his phone and sends his location to Ben. He’s pretty sure that if Eddie was going to kill him, he would have done it before now, but what a way to go.</p><p> </p><p>Eddie opens the door just a fraction, enough to slip out into the tiny hallway. Richie is sure that he’s smiling like an absolute doofus.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.” He doesn’t try and hide the fondness that seeps out of his voice.</p><p> </p><p>“H-h-hi.” Eddie doesn’t look at Richie, instead choosing to focus on staring at his hands. He’s wringing them together something fierce, and Richie wants to reach and take them in his own. Run his thumbs over the faded scars on the back of Eddie’s knuckles. Something tells him that Eddie hasn’t been almost entirely silent for two years because of a stutter.</p><p> </p><p>He’s careful. He reaches out his right pinky finger and brushes Eddie’s wrist. Eddie looks up at him then, eyes wide but not making a run for it like Richie half expects him to.</p><p> </p><p>“We don’t have to talk.” Richie says, barely above a whisper.</p><p> </p><p>“Wh.. why-why. Why.” Eddie talks like each breath punches him in the gut. He spends minutes trying to make his lips form the words. Richie hums softly, half to sooth himself and half to soothe Eddie. “Why else d-d-did you come here?”</p><p> </p><p>Richie shrugs, “Because you asked me to.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i'm on <a href="http://twitter.com/acheyb0nes">twitter</a> and <a href="http://acheybones.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> if you're into that</p></blockquote></div></div>
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